


Perseverence

by Laelior



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Non-descript Inquisitor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laelior/pseuds/Laelior
Summary: "If anyone comes asking for me, you haven't seen me. I'm not here."  Those are the words she utters when she steals into his office like a thief, closing the door behind her.(A series of random drabbles and vignettes that range from fluff to smut to angst.)Chapter 1: Hiding (smut, fluff)Chapter 2: Forgetting (angst)Chapter 3: Nightmares (angst, graphic violence)Chapter 4: Welcome Home (fluff, smut)Chapter 5: Dear Little One (tooth-rotting fluff)





	1. Hiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she needs a place to hide, she knows just where to go.
> 
> (Takes place sometime during the game.)

"If anyone comes asking for me, you haven't seen me. I'm not here." Those are the words she utters when she steals into his office like a thief, closing the door behind her.  
  
He opens his mouth to ask her who she was hiding from this time, but before he can so much as get a syllable out, a sharp knock rattles his office door. Her eyes go wide with panic and she dives for the closest cover she can find--under his desk.  
  
"Remember, I'm not here," she hisses at him, pressing a finger to her lips as she ducks out of sight of the door. He takes a moment to compose himself from the sudden invasion his office suffered before sitting in the chair behind his desk and clearing his throat.  
  
"Yes?" he asks in what he considers his most nonchalant voice. He tucks his chair in under his desk so she will be completely hidden from view. She gives his ankle a small squeeze--of thanks, he thinks.  
  
"Commander." The door to his office opens again, and Cassandra comes marching in, wearing a scowl like a fashion statement. "Have you seen the Inquisitor? She is late for a meeting."  
  
"No, I'm afraid I haven't," he says, looking studiously down at the reports on his desk. The hand on his ankle gives another squeeze. "If I happen to see her, would you like me to pass anything along?"  
  
"Tell her we cannot put this meeting off forever. We must discuss the election on the new Divine soon." The hand on his ankle migrates to his knee, and he reaches down to give it a quick pat. Truly, if he were in her shoes, he would not want to be a part of that discussion, either.  
  
"If she comes by here, I'll let her know," he assures the Seeker. Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and leaves, stalking off in the other direction to find the errant Inquisitor.  
  
As soon as she's gone, he hears an explosive sigh of relief issue from under his desk. He pushes his chair back so he can see her.  
  
"Thank you," she says emphatically, a smile of apology upon her lips. "Cassandra, Leliana, and Vivienne have been trying to pin me down for weeks. It's been exhausting, trying to find excuses to avoid them and hope the Chantry will come to its own decision."  
  
He smiles sympathetically at her. "They will find you sooner or later. Are you sure you don't want to hide out in my loft?" He nods at the ladder to where he sleeps, but when he looks back down at her, a wicked smile has crossed her face.  
  
"No," she says slowly. One of her hands traces a languid path up from his knee to his inner thigh. He gasps, choking back the sudden urge to moan, to egg her on. "I think I should thank you properly for covering for me," she says, her voice a bare whisper.  
  
"Here? Now?" He asks, putting up a token fight. But he doesn't truly wish to dissuade her. She leans forward and kisses his knee. He can feel the heat of her mouth through the thick fabric of his trousers.  
  
"Here. Now," she says, practically purring. "Crammed up there under your desk, it was very...cozy. Intimate." She smirks, tracing her fingers over the laces of his trousers, now starting to strain against his hardening cock. She leans forward again and kisses his thigh. He reaches for her, brushes her cheek with his thumb, and she turns her face to the side and kisses his hand, takes his thumb in her mouth. The sight of her, cheeks slightly flushed, swirling her tongue around his thumb like that is...incredibly arousing, he finds.  
  
"Shall we..." His voice comes out harshly, low and gravelly. He clears his throat and tries again. "Shall we both go up to the loft?"  
  
She smiles, pulling herself up to kiss him. _Maker_ , it's all he do to remember to breathe when she kisses him like that, with hunger on her lips. He weaves a hand into her hair, pulling her closely against him. Her tongue sweeps across his lips and he groans, drinking in the taste of her. Her hands tangle in his hair, and he kisses a path down her jaw, nipping lightly at her neck. She gasps against his forehead, rocking her body against his.  
  
But then another knock sounds on his door. They freeze, tangled up in each other as they are. The air in his office becomes suddenly still, tense. The knock sounds again, more insistent. She hisses in disappointment and crawls down, back under his desk. He smooths his hair back, makes sure his clothes are in their proper form, and tucks his chair in under the desk.  
  
"Yes?" His voice comes out more irritably then he intends. The door opens, and this time it's a scout, holding a sheaf of reports.  
  
"Commander, sir. Here's the information you requested on Venatori movements in the Hissing Wastes. We think we've gotten a fairly accurate count of their numbers and are--"  
  
"Yes, thank you. I'll read through them when I have time," he interrupts the scout, impatient to see him gone. Under his desk, he feels a pair of hands moving up and down his thighs in slow, languid strokes. He swallows back a gasp. It seems she's impatient, as well.  
  
"Ah, yes, Commander." He steps forward and lays the stack of papers on his desk. "While I'm here, Baron Desjardins has sent a request for reinforcements in Emprise du Lion. He believes the Red Templars are gathering their numbers to take back Suledin Keep."  
  
"Tell the Baron, _Maker's Breath_ ," he hisses through his teeth, feeling deft fingers pluck at his belt, then tug at the laces of his trousers. His hands tighten into claws, crumpling an unfortunate pile of papers on his desk.  
  
"Commander?" The scout blinks, confused by the sudden interjection.  
  
"I, uh, that is, tell the Baron he will have his reinforcements within...ten days." He grinds his teeth, trying to persevere through the sudden sensation of her hands, warm and supple, on his cock.  "Is that all?"  
  
"There's the matter of suppl--"  
  
"It can wait," he says. Her hands are gliding up and down his length, a slow and cruel torture, making him bite down on his lip to keep his groans inside of him.  
  
"Sir, Knight-Captain Rylen requested a reply by the end of the week. We'll need to send off a raven if it's to reach him--"  
  
"Leave the request with me. I'll have his re--" Thoughts abruptly cease to translate into words with a strangled groan as one hand curls around the base of his cock and slowly pumps up and down. "I'll have his reply by tonight." He forces the words out. Tension coils tightly in his stomach. He has to consciously stop himself from thrusting up into her hand.  
  
"Yes, sir." The scout looks at him strangely, but does as asked and leaves the Knight-Captain's request. "Is there anything else?"  
  
"No. You may leave now." The scout gives him one last odd look before slipping out of his office. As soon as he hears the door click shut, the moan that has been building within him escapes. She laughs softly.  
  
"I thought he would never leave," she says, still slowly pumping him in her hand.  
  
"You are truly wicked."  
  
She wrenches another moan from him when she nods in agreement and leans forward to place a soft kiss on the head of his fully erect cock. All thoughts of trying to get her upstairs are lost in the sensation of her mouth on him. He gives in to the urge to thrust against the friction of her hand. She has to stoop her shoulders to lean forward far enough to lick his shaft, base to tip, and he frowns.  
  
"That can't be comfortable, love. We can move." But she looks up at him with that devilish smile of hers and pushes forward further to take him in her mouth. It's a small bit at first, her lips wrapping lightly around the slick head, but as she inches her way down all rational thought flees his mind. There is only the warm, velvet heat of her mouth and a delicate swirling of her tongue against his sensitized flesh. He moans her name and buries a hand in her hair. A small noise of encouragement issues from her fully filled mouth, sending vibrations through him that pulls the pleasurable knot of tension in his core even tighter.  
  
And then another knock sounds on his door. He curses, blasphemes even. But before he can send the interruption away, the door opens and Josephine waltzes into his office, holding her portable writing desk under one arm.  
  
_Maker have mercy_. She doesn't stop. She continues to bob her head up and down, dragging her tongue along his length as she does so. He forces himself to keep his hips still and attempts to keep himself together.  
  
"Josephine. Now is not a good time," he says and he barely recognizes his own voice. It's terse, growling. Rude, even. The ambassador looks startled for just a moment, then she clears her throat.  
  
"This will only take a moment, Commander. I need to ask you--are you feeling well?" she asks, a sudden look of concern on her face. He is straining, trying to stay in control of his body's reactions to the warm mouth on his cock, the hand teasingly cupping his sack.  
  
"I'm afraid I have a...headache. Yes. Terrible headache," he manages. He can feel her shoulders shake with silent laughter and he tightens his grip on her hair. She retaliates by taking him in as far as she can, until he can feel his length glide against the back of her throat. A startled gasp breaks loose from him.  
  
"I can send for a healer, if you like," Josephine offers, clearly trying to be helpful.  
  
"No. It's, ah.... It's nothing a short rest can't cure," he says. He tries to offer her a reassuring smile, but it comes out a grimace when she takes him all the way in again.  
  
"Very well, if you insist." He doesn't miss the dubious look Josephine casts at him. She clears her throat again and pulls her writing desk up so she can read the papers on it. "As I said, this will only take a moment. As you know, there is tension along the border between Nevarra and Tevinter. We have troops still in the area after taking care of some Venatori forces...."  
  
Whatever else Josephine says is lost in the haze of pleasure that buzzes around his mind. _She_ is becoming bolder, taking him in as deeply as she can and digging her nails into his upper thigh when she comes up for air. Strangely, the idea that one out of place move or one stray sound too many could lead to discovery is frightfully arousing. The knot in his stomach is pulled tight, almost to the breaking point. He does not know much much longer he can contain himself.  
  
"...so if we can maneuver our forces into politically strategic places along the border, we might be able to create a calming presence," Josephine concludes. It's hard for him to determine how long she has been talking. Days, it seems like.  
  
"Yes, I suppose. Whatever you need." He waves his hand at the ambassador, anxious for her to leave.  
  
"Very well. It may mean Baron Desjardins will be slow to receive his promised reinforcements, but I am certain we can convince the Orlesian nobles to lend some of their men to Suledin Keep. They're as eager to see the Red Templars gone as we are," she muses, taking entirely too long to write up a note on it.  
  
_Another_ knocks raps lightly on his door.  
  
" _Maker's balls_ ,"  he says explosively, just as Solas comes through the door. The elven apostate looks curiously around the room.  
  
"Pardon the intrusion, I do not mean to interrupt. Cassandra is tearing up the keep trying to find the Inquisitor. I thought I saw her come this way so I thought I'd--are you well, Commander?" he asks, seeing his disheveled state.  
  
"The Commander has a headache," Josephine explains.  
  
"Ah, I see." The elf tilts his head at him. "I know a spell that might take the edge off," he offers.  
  
He tries to breathe properly. She has not let up, continue to bob her head up and down his length, and keeping his hips still is becoming more painful by the moment. He wants to send everyone away and lock the door. He wants to drag her out from under his desk, lay her on it, and take her right then and there until she screams his name in ecstasy. He wants....  
  
"No, I'm quite alright." He voice does not sound the least bit alright. Solas gives him a disturbingly perceptive look. His eyes narrow, taking in the crumpled papers on his desk, the one hands that remains steadily in his lap, then his eyes flit to the small gap between his desk and the floor.  
  
He holds his breath, waiting for the elf to say something, but he does not. Instead, he _smirks_. He places a light hand on Josephine's arm. "I believe we have overstayed our welcome, Ambassador. It is my opinion, as a man of some talent with healing spells, that the Commander merely needs some rest to recover from his...headache."  
  
Solas gently guides the Ambassador from his office. He does not miss that he even locks the door on his way out.  
  
When they're gone, he lets loose the loud groan that has been threatening to get away from him for some time. She pulls her mouth off of his cock long enough to laugh, then she goes right back to the task she's set herself. Now that they're alone, she takes her time, taking him as deeply as she can before pulling all the way back to his tip, then all the way down again. Both of his hands tangle in her hair and his hips thrust to meet each of her moves. She takes him apart with gentle precision. Piece by piece he feels himself falling until the tension within him snaps. His hips thrust erratically and he moans her name over and over again to warn her that he is close, so _very_ close.  
  
Stars explode behind his eyes when he comes in her mouth with one last powerful thrust. She waits until his cock has finished spurting his seed before she pulls off and swallows. He uses his grip on her head to pull her up, kissing her, tasting himself on her. She is flushed with her own desire, lips swollen from so much exertion.  
  
"I love you," he says, his voice barely a gasp. He knows he will reciprocate the pleasure he's just received when he can catch his breath.  
  
"I love you, too," she replies, breathless in her own right. Then she grins at him. "The next time I need a place to hide, I think you'll know just where to find me."


	2. Forgetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has news for him.
> 
> (Takes place post-Trespasser.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight canon divergence for the sake of angst in this drabble. And boy howdy is there angst. 
> 
> (Warning for implied/referenced pregnancy loss.)

He runs his hands through the polishing sand, pulling handfuls of it up and letting it slip through his fingers in small streams. His breastplate stands upright in the crate of sand, half-polished and mostly forgotten at this point. The spots of rust can wait. He is focused on the sensations of each individual grain as it goes through his fingers. He grabs a handful and closes his fist around it. Sand squeezes out through the gaps in his fingers in slow steady streams. The harder he tries to hold onto it, the more grains escape his grasp. The contradiction has occupied his entire mind.

Lately his thoughts stray to his boyhood in the Templar order. The names of his fellow initiates, his trainers. The memories he has of his family before he joined the Order at thirteen. But he can remember few of them. Every day, they escape him. Bit by bit. He is losing pieces of himself, each grain of him slipping through his grasp. Those losses fill his mind with a static buzzing sound, a hum that grows louder over time and only ebbs with the sweet poison of Lyrium, and her touch.

He holds on. He fights. Perseveres. For her.

He hears someone calling his name and lets the rest of the sand fall back into the crate. She is there, standing behind him, wringing her hands. She puts a hand on his shoulder. There is something about her expression. Radiant joy, mixed with fear and apprehension. He turns to her and wraps his arms around her waist, bringing her toward him.  She does not slip through his grasp. But she resists his pull.

"We need to talk," she, putting her one remaining hand on his chest, keeping a distance between them. Her voice shakes, like she has been crying. He then notices how red her eyes are.

"Is something wrong, love?"

"Wrong? I don't know if wrong is the word. I...I really don't know how to say this." She is flushed. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, as she always does when she's nervous. "I don't know where to begin."

"Take your time, start at the beginning," he says patiently. She has shown him so much patience, so much kindness. It's the least he can do for her, after everything she's been through.

"I..." She stops, swallows, then starts again. "I just went to see the healer, down in the village."

"The healer? Are you ill, love?" He frowns, running the back of his hand against her forehead, a gesture he vaguely remembers his mother doing whenever he was sick as a child. She does not seem fevered.

"No! No. I thought I might be, but...." She stops again. "Cullen...Cullen I'm pregnant." She sounds near hysterical.

He hears a sharp gasp, and it takes him several moments to realize that it came from him. All he can do is stare. His tongue is thick, paralyzed with such a strong emotion that he can't put a name to it. Joy. Or fear. Or despair. Or excitement. A sense of deja vu, maybe, of transcendent joy that ends in crushing grief.

"Please say something," she pleads. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears. He raises his hand to her face, and she flinches. He doesn't understand. He just lays a hand on her cheek and wipes the corner of her eye with his thumb. "Please," she says again.

"I...I'm going to be a father?" That is all he can manage. Is this happiness he is feeling? He can't remember.

Her tears well over and a sob racks her body. He pulls her closer, and she does not resist this time. She melts into him. 

 "Please tell me you want this," she says through her tears, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. She is fragile. Sharp. This isn't like her.

"Of course I do. Maker, I do. I've just never thought about it."

As soon as the words leave his lips, she jerks away from him, her eyes searching his face. She is edged with an anger that makes little sense to him. Whatever she is looking for, she doesn't seem to find it.

"Oh, Cullen," she sighs and presses her face to his chest again. The anger is gone, and she seems drained. He wraps his arms around her waist and rubs her back soothingly. He doesn't understand why she's so upset, but it doesn't matter. He is here for her. It is all he can be.

She brings up her hand and cradles it behind his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He responds automatically at the familiar sensation of her lips on his, pulling her closer and running his tongue over her lower lip. Her mouth opens for him and he delves in with greedy exploration. His memories may be failing him, but this will  _never_  escape him. Not the feel of her mouth on his tongue, not the way her body molds itself to his, not the small moan that escapes her lips.

When she breaks the kiss and lays her head against his shoulder, he just holds her. 

He will be a father. That should fill him with joy, and oh, it does. It does. But it is darkened by the knowledge of what he knows is coming.

He fights, he perseveres, trying to stay with her for her sake, and now for the sake of their child. But he does not know if it is enough anymore. He is trapped in a cage of his own forgetting and falling further in each day. Bit by bit, he is losing pieces of himself. He tries to hold on, but the harder he squeezes, the more pieces slip through his fingers.


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon. A nightmare. An Inquisitor determined to help our boy through it all.
> 
> (Takes place sometime during the game. No-Lyrium Cullen.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts out as a very intense nightmare, but quickly devolves (evolves?) into comfort.
> 
>  **There is some reeeaaally graphic torture with non-con undertones in this chapter.** You many notice that this went from "No Archive Warnings Apply" to "Graphic Depictions of Violence" for that reason. If you're here for the fluff, skip ahead to the next chapter.
> 
> I have a few more drabbles in mind for these two which are entirely fluff, so it's not all angst and terrible things.

The Circle is always eerily quiet at night. 

During the day it bustles with motion and magic and voices. The curved stone walls each every sound until the each floor of the tower has its own cacophonic symphony. But once the mages have all gone off to their quarters for the night, the only sounds are the heavy footfalls of Templar patrols that ensure no mages are out past curfew.

It is therefore a very bad idea to make much noise when one does not wish to draw attention to themselves. 

So when a barely muffled gasp echoes down the empty corridor in the dead of the night, he is quick to put a hand over his lover's mouth to silence the sound. The last thing either of them wants is to be discovered, half naked in a third floor alcove, her back against the wall and her robes hitched up around her waist with two of his fingers worked inside of her. The front of her robes are unlaced, and his tunic is loose and untucked, exposing parts of his chest to the drafty night air. He stills for a moment, keeping his ears attuned for the sound of footsteps, any sign that they have been discovered, but he hears nothing. And she is getting impatient. She rocks back and forth against his hand, seeking to ease the ache he's awoken within her. 

"You need to be quiet, love," he whispers in her ear, taking the opportunity to nip at her earlobe. She gasps again against his hand, but the sound does not travel this time. Her hands are busy with the laces of his trousers. He is grateful he is not on patrol duty tonight. Attempting a tryst like this while in armor would be awkward.

"I need you," she whispers back, the sounds muffled against his hand. She's managed to pull his trousers down just enough to free his cock from the all-too-tight garments. There's something about her voice. Something odd. Something cold. Like a pebble sliding across an icy pond. But it doesn't seem to matter. Not when her hand is wrapped around his length, slowing pumping up and down. "I need you inside of me." 

He has to bite back a moan just hearing those words. Just when he thought he couldn't get any harder. He slowly pulls his fingers from her and moves his hand up her body, brushing one of her nipples with his thumb. She arches and whimpers against his touch.

Both of his hands then move to her waist, hoisting her up against the wall. Her legs entwine themselves around his hips, she pulls herself closer to him. She takes him in hand again and guides his cock to her entrance. Her arousal drips down from her core and slides down her legs. The scent of her, warm and floral and spiked with need, is overwhelming. He needs her, needs to feel her stretch and clench around him, needs to feel her nails dig into his back. He needs bury himself in her for these few stolen, forbidden moments. He moves his hips forward, just barely pushing against her entrance. 

"Are you ready, love?" he whispers through clenched teeth. The threads of his self control fray with every breath he takes, as the dark recesses of his mind urge him to take her as hard as he can. 

"I need you," she says again, moaning through a haze of anticipation. "Do you need me?"

He swallows. "Maker, yes."

"Do you desire me?"

and...

then...

The world turns cold. The soft, warm skin of her waist under his hands turns icy and scaly. A low, throaty laugh comes from somewhere in her chest, and it's cold like the cracking of ice. Everything goes still, except for the beat of his heart which is suddenly quite loud in his ears.

Some part of his mind still capable of rational thought realizes what's happening. This never happened, except in some juvenile fantasy he'd conjured as a young man. 

 He lets go of her, but she has already entwined herself with him. She laughs again.

" _My Templar,_ " she says in a chill, otherworldly voice. Her robes are suddenly gone. Her naked skin is only adorned with a gold collar and gold jewelry around her nipples, connected by a loose chain. She rolls her hips against him, a motion that moments before would have snapped his self-control. But his cock, like the rest of him, recoils in horror from the demon before him. Somewhere, distantly, he can hear a man screaming. He pushes against her shoulders and tries to step away. She puts her hands on either cheek, razor sharp claws resting just against his skin.

" _What's wrong, lover?_ " she croons, sliding those claws down the side of his face. The tips just barely graze. " _Don't tell me you've changed your mind._ " He closes his eyes, nausea and revulsion rolling through him in waves.

Another scream rends the air, and a slow and sickeningly familiar scent begins to permeate the air. Death. When he opens his eyes again, he is still in the third floor alcove, but it is not longer quiet and empty. He turns his head. The demon's claws sink into his skin just below his cheekbone, but he barely feels it. Blood spatters decorate the walls and floor. A young man in full Templar armor lies on his side. Blood trickles from his mouth and ears and he is silently mouthing words, a prayer as his life slowly and painfully leaves him. The shape of the words is familiar.

"Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written." He finds himself whispering the words along with the dying Templar. The demon only laughs. But, blessedly, she untangles her legs from his waist. She turns him so he is facing the horror head-on. His brethren litter the floor, dead and dying. Down the corridor, only one man remains standing amid the carnage, trapped in a conjured prison and forced to watch his brothers-in-arms fall prey to the demons and abominations.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asks, feeling the bile crawl up his throat. He tries to look away from the trapped young man. He tries. But his eyes cannot leave, cannot look away from the increasing madness in the young man's face. The demon keeps her clawed hands on his shoulders, keeping him still. Keeping him as trapped as the young man in the corridor. "Let me go," he says, even knowing how futile a request it is.

" _Let you go?_  " She laughs cruelly. " _Where would you go?_ _You_ _never left here. You've been here all of these years. Trapped. Watching. Waiting for your turn to die._ " As she talks, her claws travel down his shoulders, down his arms, and all the way to the tips of his fingers. 

" _Stay with me, lover_." She leans forward, whispering in his ear. He can feel her tips of her nipples brush his back. " _Stay here with me."_

Sharp pain rips through his hands. The demon's claws push under his fingernails, splitting and tearing. His body tries to cry out but no sound comes. His knees buckle and hit the ground, and the demons writhes against his back in ecstasy. 

The first wave of pain subsides. The demon pulls him back to his feet and circles around to his front. He cannot move, cannot speak. He tries, but only the barest of whimpers escapes. She runs hers hands down his chest, splitting his tunic open with her claws. 

" _I wanted you inside of me. But this will do, too._ " The demon's claws slide under his skin, razor sharp talons that peel the layers away with almost loving tenderness. Blood runs down his side, warm and slick. The sticky, coppery tang of it fills his nostrils. He feels a cold trail cut across the warm trickles of blood as the demon leans down to lap at the red rivulets. She withdraws her claws only to grasp his face with both hands, bits of his flesh and blood still clinging to her. She forces his to keep his head still as she...kisses him. Makes him taste himself. Smears his blood over his lips and coos adoringly at him.

" _You look so beautiful like this,_ " she whispers in his ear, her tongue darting out to tease his earlobe in an obscene parody of seduction. " _You taste divine. I can't wait to taste more._ " She kisses him again, forcing her tongue into his mouth until he gags on it, then she drags her teeth along his lower lip and bits down, hard. The tangy, metallic taste of his own blood floods his mouth. Again.

 _"My lovely Templar,_ " She purrs. 

Cold seeps into this body, starting with his ruined fingers. It creeps up into his hands, through his arms and shoulders, and slowly makes its way down to his toes. It is not a soothing, numbing cold. It burns and cracks through his body until it is all he can feel. He runs through the Chant of Light in his mind, in an vain attempt to keep the creeping madness he can feel at bay. The Canticle of Trials floats in his thoughts.

 _Though all before me is shadow,_  
_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._  
_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._  
_For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light_  
_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost_

But the words of the prayer soon shred and break, their jagged edges turning to daggers in his mind. The world goes blank and the Tower corridor fades until all he can see is the demon in front of him.

Behind the demon he can see small movements. Flashes. Dark silhouettes against a faint green glow. A tall, deformed figure speaks in a low, gravelly voice, but he can't make out a words. One large, clawed hand is raised up, holding a slim, female figure up by the neck. He cannot see her face, only the outline of her body. The figure's feet dangle, several inches off the ground. She struggles, clawing at the hand on her throat. The demon holds his head lovingly, cold fingers pressed against his temples, keeping him turned toward the two figures. He can only watch in horror as the woman's struggles become weaker as the air leaves her body.

" _Did you think you could keep her safe? My beautiful Templar. You were always too weak,_ " the demon croons in his ear. She slips around behind him to give him a better view. Her tongue slips past her lips to flick his ear, like a snake testing the air around it. He can feel her body pressed against his back--hard, cold, sharp. 

The woman in the giant's grasp stops struggling. Her arms fall limply to her sides. A great green light flashes from her arm, then fades and dies. She falls to the ground. Empty. Gone.

**NO!**

No.

no

The word swirls around in his skull, echoing emptily until the simple syllable has lost all sense of meaning. Air leaves his lungs in a slow hiss. The demon finally lets go of his head and he crumbles as far as the demon will allow.

" _He will break her_ ," she whispers, putting a hand under his chin and forcing him to look at her. " _Making you watch will be...marvelous_." Her other hand caresses his cheek in a mockery of affection. Razor sharp claws slide down his cheek and he feels more trickles of blood make their way down his face.

" _It's only too easy to break a man in love_." The hands slide down his neck, to his torso where sections of his skin hang loosely from his body. The demon strokes his flesh, dipping her fingers in his blood once again. The she digs her claws in again.

The paralysis on his vocal cords lets up.

He screams.

 

When he awakes, it is to a warm, soothing hand on his forehead. Cold and clammy sweat clings to his skin. He feels as though he is still screaming but no sound issues from his throat other than a dry and choked groan. The cold of the nightmare permeates throughout his body, freezing his limbs. His heart beats wildly, _thump-thump_ ing with the rush of blood in his ears. The only warmth he feels is from the small, lightly trembling hand on his forehead. 

"Shhh," she says, gently smoothing her hands through his sweat-soaked hair. Before he can think about it, he's reaching up to grab the hand that's touching him. He hears a small cry, a gasp of pain and astonishment. His eyes fly open and he sees her face hovering over his, a white-faced mask of concern. He has a sudden vivid flash of her, her faceless body struggling for breaths that won't come. But the feel of her skin on his hand, so warm and so real, grounds him, brings him back into himself. The image gradually fades from his mind. He lets go of her wrist, still struggling to find a way to breathe in the waking world. She frowns, but then a calm and determined look descends over her features.

"Breathe with me," she says, bringing her hand to hover just over his abdomen, not touching. Not yet. He can feel the warmth of her hands radiating so close to his cool skin. Her eyes flicker to his face seeking his permission. When he doesn't object, she presses down, a gentle pressure against his diaphragm that forces him to exhale in a slow stream. She lets the pressure up as gently as she pressed, then repeats the motion several times until he is breathing in slow, steady breaths. Time seems to stop, and his focus narrows to the gentle pressure on his abdomen, the steady and staid rhythm of air coming in to and out of his body. "That's it, my love. Breathe.

"Was it the same dream?" she asks in a calm, steady voice. It wasn't quite the same one. _She_ had never been in it before, for one thing. But all he can do is nod and swallow hard past the stubborn lump of terror that lingers in his throat.  _The tangy, metallic taste of  his own blood floods his mouth_. He stops mid-swallow and almost chokes on his own saliva.

No. There is no blood in his mouth. His skin and fingernails are intact. It was only in the dream, and he's awake.

He's awake.

He's awake.

"You're awake, now, love," she says in that same calm, steady voice, as though she had read his mind. "You're here with me. You're safe," she continues to say until it becomes a chant. Her allows her words to anchor him to the  _here_ and  _now_. And again, she seems to follow the train of his thoughts.

"Can you tell me where you are?" She is patient, waiting for his answer and allowing him to take his time to gather the words that will help him leave the dreams behind.

"I..." His throat his dry. He swallows again. "I'm in your quarters. In your bed. With you." She squeezes his hand give him a reassuring smile. Saying the words aloud allows him to relax. The fog begins to clear from his mind. 

"There you are, love." She plants a soft kiss on on his forehead. He closes his eyes and sighs. He feels, rather than sees, the tension melt away from her as she settles down to lie at his side. His night terrors had frightened her at first, those first few times they shared a bed. It had taken time and many terrifying experiences before they figured out a way to bring him down when he was in the thick of it. 

"Thank you," he says, draping his arm around her and drawing her closer. Her body drapes softly against his side, warm and yielding and real. She laces her fingers with his and curls herself around him, almost like a protective shield. The gesture pulls at his heart. He doesn't ask this of her. He's tried sleeping in his own quarters so as not to disturb her rest, but she insists. He doesn't understand why she does this for him. Why she loves him. Some undeserved gift from the Maker, no doubt.

"Your dreams..." she starts, then trails off. He squeezes her fingers. "They're getting to be fewer and further between," she says hopefully.

"But they're getting worse," he says hoarsely, finishing her unspoken corollary to that observation. Silence falls between them as he simply allows himself to feel her presence, warm and supple against him. "It's the Lyrium. Or lack of it it. It...makes them less fuzzy." Once the dreams had been a blurry and uncertain ramble of memories both real and imagined. The poison song of Lyrium dulled the sharp terror, the jagged pain that came with them. Now the song is faded, and the dreams are sharper than ever. But she...she is there for him when he wakes. She removes the edges and reminds him to breathe. 

"That was the worst one you've had in some time, though." She unlaces her fingers from his and places her hand on his chest and her eyes track its steady rise and fall with his breaths. Like she's reassuring herself that he continues to breathe calmly and steadily.

 "It was...." He tries to put into words what it was like, what he had seen, but words fail. And he cannot burden her with the knowledge of his dreams. She carries too much already. He has shared more with her than any other soul alive, but still he keeps this part of himself from her.

"Tell me?" The simple, two-word plea almost undoes him. 

 "Some day," he promises. It will not be today, when the aftershocks of the nightmare still grip him. But one day, when this is over, when he's done his job to keep her safe through it all. Then, he may be able to tell her.

She accepts the vague promise with a nod, and then buries her face in his shoulder. He pulls her closer and presses his lips to the top of her head. Stray hairs tickle his nose, but he holds her closer still, wanting to keep the feel of her burned into his memory. 

Maybe one day he will be able to leave the nightmares behind. One day he will be able to share with her without reservation. But for now, it's enough that she is there with him when he wakes, to remind him of the need to breathe, to  _be_ in the waking world.

It's enough.


	4. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long absence, she comes back with some news. Now if she could just find a way to break it to him....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's not obvious by now, I've been exploring different scenarios and possibilities with these drabbles. They don't all necessarily tell the story of the same Cullen and Inquisitor. This one, for instance takes place Post-Trespasser, in happier circumstances than the second chapter. No-Lyrium Cullen. Pure fluff. Also NSFW.

When she comes home, she's carrying a bouquet of purple hyacinths and hollyhock. The flowers are wilted, but she clutches them tightly in her hand and thrusts them at him when she comes through the door. 

He looks at her incredulously, then at the flowers, not taking them from her just yet.

"You're late," he says tersely, barely hiding his relief behind his annoyance. She'd been gone for a long time, far too long. The smell of the flowers fills his nostrils, along with the stink of horse that wafts off of her. Dirt and Maker knows what else streaks her face and travel leathers. He has to stop himself from trying to smudge the dirt from her face like a mother hen. She is pale and drawn from travel and exhaustion. And still she keeps thrusting those damned flowers at him, expecting him to take them from her hand. She shrugs her other shoulder and lets her saddlebags fall onto the table right near the door.

"You could have come with me, you know," she says with her own veiled annoyance.  
  
"I had my own business to attend to here. You were only supposed to be gone six weeks. It's been three months. You didn't even write me to say you'd be overdue until a week ago." And she'd gone to Kirkwall. Maker as his witness, he never wants to set foot in that forsaken city again if he could help it.  
  
"It ended up taking longer than I'd planned. And there was the matter of the assassination attempt on Varric." Now she is sheepish. He takes the flowers from her and sets them down on the nearby kitchen table. He'll put them in water. Later. After he's given his wife a long overdue talking to.  
  
"Aveline could have handled the Venatori. You didn't have to go haring off into the Vinmark mountains to track them down."  
  
"Captain Vallen isn't as familiar with the Venatori as I am. And when someone tries to murder my friend, I—”

“You stopped writing almost six weeks ago.” He cuts in before she can try to excuse her actions, her lack of communication. “You had me half-mad with worry. Until I received your letter last week that you were coming home, I was ready to ride up to make sure you were well.” Does his voice tremble? Maybe a little. It's a testament to how worried he'd been that he was willing to make the trek to Kirkwall to check on her.

At this, she has the grace to look abashed. She looks down, knotting the fingers of her one hand together anxiously. “I’m sorry about that, love. I was just so busy, there never seemed enough time to sit down and write. After we tracked down the would-be assassins, there didn’t seem much to write about anyway.” She speaks softly, but keeps her eyes firmly on her hand.

“You could have at least let me know you were staying longer than expected.”

"I'm sorry. And there's something I..." she says with a sigh, then looks up to meet his gaze with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "I had hoped to save the arguing and apologies for later, but I suppose we're just getting it out of the way now."

The flippant follow up to her apology should irritate him even more, but he finds the annoyance starting to fade and be replaced by what he should have felt all along: relief...and longing.  
  
"Enough," he says firmly, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her toward him. "Enough," he says again when her face takes on a rebellious look. To stop her from trying to continue the argument, he claims her mouth in a deep, searing kiss. She makes a small startled sound at the abruptness of it, but that sound soon becomes a moan when his tongue sweeps across her lower lip. It has been three months since he has been able to kiss her like this, and from the eager way she returns it, she has missed it every bit as much as he has. Her hand moves up his back, cups at the back of his neck, and then comes to rest with her fingers tangled in his hair. He spins both of them around so her lower back is pressed against the kitchen table. She pushes herself up on her toes and perches on its edge. Her legs run up the backs of his calves and come to rest behind his thighs.

"This is more the— _Oh_ ," she moans when he nuzzles at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and rocks against him. "—more the homecoming I had in mind."

"I've missed you," he murmurs against her skin, taking in the scent of her. She smells of horses and sweat, but underneath that she smells of _her_. That, more than anything else, brings home how much he'd longed for her in the three months she'd been gone. Already his trousers feel far too tight. 

He ghosts a hand down the front of her shirt, feeling the soft curves of her body beneath the fabric. She closes her eyes and takes a long, shuddering breath.

"I want you. Right here, and right now," she breathes. She doesn't need to ask him twice. He captures her mouth with his again while his hands begin to work the ties of her shirt. The laces come undone easily—all of her garments have been designed to allow her to easily dress or undress by herself with one hand—and he pulls it off over her head. He wastes little time in getting her breastband off next. 

Her pulls back to take a good look at her. She's panting, flushed with desire, and achingly beautiful. His fingers trace the pink line of a scar just over her right breast and he frowns. "This is new." It's not a question. He knows each curve of her body, each scar she bears as surely as he knows his own.

"Courtesy of one of those Venatori assassins. He got one of Varric's bolts in his eye for his trouble." 

It's tempting to be angry about not being told of her injury, but anger has no place in what he's feeling now. He presses his lips to the scar, relishing her small hum of approval at the act. He kisses a short path down, nipping his teeth into the soft skin of her breast as he goes and soothing the small bites with his tongue. She gasps, arching her back and burying her fingers in his hair. Her nipples are stiffened to sharp peaks, and he delights in the sound she makes when he lightly nips at one with his lips while rolling the other around with his thumb. He takes his time, slowly drawing the peak into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, before withdrawing just as tortuously slow, and switching to her other breast. They're a little heavier than he remembers, he thinks, taking a moment to hold each in his palms, but that may be his memory playing tricks on him after her long absence from their bed.

"Oh, Cullen," she moans breathily. He kisses another trail down her stomach, pausing to dip his tongue in her navel along the way, eliciting a small, squeaky moan from her. He stops again when he gets to the top of her leggings. He bends down and unlaces her boots. She helps him kick them off them peel away her leggings and smallclothes. She is bare before him, perched on the edge of the kitchen table and trembling with want. He kneels before her and nuzzles the inside of her thigh, his stubble scratching against her skin. He savors the smell of her, the musky and womanly scent of her arousal.

"Please...." she says. He looks up, seeing her eyes glazed over with desire.

"Please what?" He asks, feigning ignorance of what she's really asking while running a finger lazily up and down her inner thigh. A small, strangled sound of frustration escapes her throat.

"Please _anything_ ," she begs. When she puts it that way, he can't help but oblige her. He strokes his finger gently over her folds, already slick with arousal. He strokes her again, pressing slightly harder. She rolls her hips into the touch, trying to get _more_. His finger slips between her folds, and the sound she makes goes straight to his cock.  He presses his finger deeper within her, feeling the way she clenches around him. She moans encouragingly when he kisses his way up her thigh to her core. The hand on his scalp squeezes him with encouragement. He slowly pumps his finger in and out of her. Once he's settled into a rhythm, he leans forward and flicks at the top of her folds with his tongue. She lets out a needy cry, pulling on his scalp almost painfully. He grins against her core before running his tongue all the way up her seam, ending with a small flick against her sensitive nub. She grinds her hips urgently against his face, silently begging for more. He obliges, slipping another finger within her and circling her nub with his tongue. The taste of her is almost as intoxicating as her scent. It fills his senses, urging him to give her more,  _more_. 

"Cullen, I—ngh— I need—" she pants. It's not long before he can feel her getting close. His neglected cock twitches in his trousers, but right now his focus is on her. He pushes his fingers in deeper, faster, and gently nips at her bud with his teeth. She tenses above him, her walls suddenly squeezing around his fingers as she comes with a keening wail of his name.

He pulls his fingers from her and licks her juices off of them, still drunk on the taste of her. She pulls him up and guides his mouth to hers for a deep, ravishing kiss. Her trembling hand reaches down to fumble with his belt. He helps her get the buckle undone, then pushes his trousers and smallclothes down past his hips. His cock springs free, already nearly impossibly hard. 

"I want you in me," she says in a low, urgent voice, utterly unsated even after her climax. She takes him in hand and lightly strokes him. He closes his eyes and hisses between his teeth at the sensation.

"I won't— _Maker's breath_ —I won't last long," he warns her. She merely smiles and guides his cock to her still-dripping folds. He does not have words to describe how it feels when he slowly sinks into her. She's hot and slick and tight and inviting all at the same time. He groans her name, feeling utterly lost within her. When he's fully seated, he stops, giving her time to stretch and adjust. She is not so patient, already rolling her hips against him. It rips a guttural growl from him. He snaps his hips into her, and she throws back her head with a deep moan.

He moves within her with powerful strokes, grasping her hips to keep them steady. Her hand digs into his shoulder, holding on for dear life at the demanding pace he's set. Each thrust draws a new sound from her, each one urging him on to take her to new heights of bliss. One hand goes where they're joined, and he rubs his thumb against her nub. He can feel his climax building all too fast, and he's determined to bring her there with him. She starts to tighten around him, and her increasingly breathy moans tell him she's getting close. He presses down on that little bundle of nerves, and that's all it takes. Her walls convulse around his cock. He feels his sack tighten before he follows her over the edge, coming with a few last erratic thrusts.

"I— _fuck_ ," he gasps. He spends himself within her, a feral groan escaping him. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he curses at himself for getting so lost in the moment that he forgot to pull out. He withdraws quickly, drawing a small cry of objection from her. "I'm sorry," he says with a grimace.

"It's okay, love. It's really okay," she reassures him with a deep and loving kiss. When he pulls back from the kiss, she has an odd expression on her face. He looks at her questioningly, but she just shakes her head. "All of this before I've even bathed or had lunch," she laughs, changing the subject. He looks down at her, once again struck by how utterly lovely she is. Her hair is in wild disarray and her lips are plump and swollen, but Maker take him if she isn't the most radiantly beautiful women in all of Thedas.

 "Welcome home, my love," he laughs, cupping her face in his hands and kissing her soundly.

 

* * *

 

Later, when he has drawn her a bath and gone rummaging around in the larder for a small meal for the two of them—it isn’t fancy, just some brown bread, apples, hard cheese, and smoked ham—he sees her saddlebags by the door. They had been knocked over sometime during their activities, their contents spilled on to the floor. He bends down to pick them up, gathering piles of traveling clothes, rations, and what seems like an entire sheaf of paper.

He’s pulling the papers into a neat pile when one of them slips from his hands. He snorts in annoyance, watching it slowly drift to the floor. But then he stops. It has his name on it.

Curious, he picks it up. The paper is crinkled and worn, as though it has been taken out and put back many times. It’s a letter, in her handwriting. His name is at the top, as well as a date of six weeks ago. The beginning of the letter has been written, crossed out, and re-written half a dozen times.

_Cullen—_

~~_My love, this trip goes on too long. I miss you and I want to come home, but I have to stay a while longer._ ~~

~~_I have news for you. I’m not quite sure how to say it._ ~~

~~_Have you ever wanted to say something, but couldn’t get it out on paper? Bloody hell, where is Josephine when you need her?_ ~~

~~_I can see now why you have declined to return to Kirkwall…._ ~~

The letter continues on with several more false starts. He sits down on a nearby chair to read the rest of it, feeling the corners of his mouth turn up as the he reads the words in her voice. But the shadow of a mystery settles in his mind: if the letter is dated six weeks ago, why had she not sent it?

He reaches the bottom of the letter, to a part that has not been crossed out. It’s short, only a few words long. And it robs him of breath and leaves him feeling dizzy. The letter crumples under his suddenly unsteady hand. If he were not already sitting, he would not trust his knees to hold him upright.

“Cullen.”

He looks up and sees her standing at the foot of the stairs, wrapped in a thick woolen robe and her hair damp from the bath. He tries to take a breath, but it catches in his throat at the sight of her. She takes a few hesitant steps toward him and gently pries the letter from his hand. When she sees what it is, she heaves a sigh.

“I’m sorry. That’s not how I would have preferred to tell you.”

He brings himself to look up, to meet her eyes. “How long…?” He manages to get the strangled question out.

She purses her lips. He can tell she’s considering how to answer. “Three months,” she says finally.

Questions chase themselves around his mind. “Why didn’t you write me?”

“I did,” she says with a small humorless laugh. “I just...couldn’t find the right way to say it and never sent the letter. I wanted to tell you in person, but the healers advised me to not travel for a few weeks.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says exasperatedly.

“No, but it’s what you asked.” She gives him a crooked smile and brushes the backs of her knuckles against his cheek. He takes her hand and holds it tightly, half-fearing she might try to slip away from him.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“When I found the right moment. Oh, Cullen….” She sighs. He looks up to see tears welling in her eyes from some strong emotion.

He gets to his feet and pulls her closer. She leans sideways into him, resting her head against his shoulder and seeming to go as boneless as he feels somewhere among the numbed shock he’s experiencing. He finds himself pulling on the tie of her robe. Her breath catches when the heavy fabric falls away from the front of her body, exposing her to the cold air. He brushes a hand against her cheek, a mirror of the gesture she’d used on him not a few moments ago, and keeps his hand travelling down. He trails his hand down her neck, across the soft swell of her breast, and down to the smooth expanse of her stomach. She’s trembling and watching him with a wary eye, waiting to see what he will do, but his hand simply comes to rest over her abdomen. There. Just there. Now that he knows what look for, he can see the slight swell beginning to take shape on her otherwise flat stomach.

“Cullen,” she breathes his name again, bring her hand to rest over his. Their fingers lace together over her belly and the tiny life growing there.

Their child.

Suddenly his face hurts, and he realizes he must be grinning like an idiot. A laugh escapes him, and before he knows it she’s laughing, too. The next hour is a blur of laughter, tears, and tender kisses as she tells him of the last six weeks, and how her injury in the fight with the Venatori lead the healers to discover her condition.

When the sun goes down, they retreat back upstairs to their bedroom. They make love again, this time with less urgency and a renewed sense of tenderness and wonder for each other. She moves atop him like a wave on the shore. When she breaks over him, he breaks with her, calling her name with a shuddering gasp.

She falls asleep before him, no doubt exhausted from the long days of travel and the vigorous welcome home she's received. She sleeps on her side, with her back nestled against his chest. He cannot help but hover his hand over her stomach, caught in a hazy glow that lies on the border between reverence and awe.

He thinks of the flowers she brought him, still sitting on the kitchen table downstairs. In the morning, he'll find some water for them—provided they haven't shriveled up overnight. For now...for now he simply watches the steady rise and fall of her chest and feels the warmth of her against his body. His wife, and soon his child. Himself, as a father. He has a hard time picturing it, and yet....

And yet.

He places a tender kiss against the juncture of her shoulder and neck. She murmurs sleepily and moves in closer to his warmth. This wasn't what they'd planned for just yet, but he can't deny the contentment he feels settling over him.

Somehow, it just feels  _right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing smut really doesn't come naturally to me, particularly in the freeform style I've chosen for these drabbles. Most of the reason why I've trying to write it lately has been to try and get out of my comfort zone. How am I doing at it? Let me know!


	5. Dear Little One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen writes letters to his future child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct follow-up to the last chapter. Tooth-rotting fluff. I honestly think this may be the fluffiest thing I've ever written.

Dear Little One,

It seems odd to write a letter to you when you’re barely a swell in your mother’s stomach, but the world is an uncertain place. If the worst should happen, we wish you to know your parents. Your mother is also writing letters to you, though she refuses to allow me to read them.

We do not yet have a name for you. There’s no way to know if you’ll be a boy or a girl, of course, and we’ve barely begun to discuss what name you might be given once you’re with us. Your Aunt Mia has made her suggestions known. I won’t repeat your mother’s reply to her suggestions, but suffice to say I believe she has her own preferences. For now, I shall just call you “Little One.”

You came as a surprise to us, but not an unwelcome one. There was a time I would have considered being a father as being beyond my reach, but life rarely takes us in the directions we expect. I never could have dreamed that one day I would one day love and later marry such a rare woman as your mother, much less be a part of a family.

Whatever happens, know that you are loved and you are wanted. Your mother and I very much look forward to meeting you when you arrive.

\--Your father

* * *

 Dear Little One,

I felt you for the first time last night.

Your mother has only just begun to show, although she has been complaining of her clothes being ill-fitting for some time now. She has also been telling me that she could feel you move for at least two weeks. The midwife told her it was likely indigestion. I do not think she will be our midwife much longer.

But last night, as I laid my hand over the swell of her stomach, I felt you. It was a tiny thing, barely a flutter. One might even call it inconsequential.

It was not inconsequential for me. I knew then that I have never wanted anything in my life so much as to meet you, to love you, and to raise you into a better world than the one your mother and I were given.

I pray to the Maker that I’m given the chance to give you that.

\--Your father

* * *

Sister Brecce, 

Would you be so kind as to post the following message on the Chanter’s Board near your parish, and to make inquiries with the College of Healers in Tantervale on my behalf on the matter we spoke of the other day?

Regards,

Cullen Rutherford

 

WANTED:

Experienced midwife. Possibly a temporary position, pending other applicants. Utmost discretion is required. See Sister Brecce in the Chantry for details.

* * *

Dear Little One,

It seems we truly will require a new midwife, as your mother dismissed the last one for suggesting that giving in to her cravings for strawberries would cause you to be born with red hair. Knowing your mother, I shouldn’t be surprised if she eats all the strawberries in Ferelden out of spite.

I do not care in the least what color hair you’ll have. If the Maker if kind, you’ll have your mother’s eyes and her fierce spirit, but not her temper.

Every day, we watch you grow bigger in your mother’s womb. It’s hard to believe that in little more than two months, you will be here with us.

\--Your father

* * *

Messere Rutherford,

Enclosed is the item you requested, crafted to your specifications.

Please accept my sincerest apologies once again for the apprentice you made your initial inquiry with. He did not recognize either you or the name of your lady wife, which you requested to be engraved on the item. I assure you, we would not have asked for payment if he had. I have also enclosed the money you entrusted us with as a deposit. I understand you insisted upon paying, but we would never be so crass as to accept coin from the Lady Inquisitor or her Lord Husband for a piece such as this.

Should you ever require another commission, please give us your consideration in the future.

With deepest respect,

Perwyn Acton, proprietor, Acton and Sons Fine Jewelers

_Enclosed: Three (3) gold sovereigns in refund, one (1) locket wrought from the purest silverite, delicately engraved as you requested, with a polished Ferelden Frostback dragon scale and a silver coin from the reign of King Maric set into it._

* * *

Cullen,

I know I say this every time I write, but please come home as soon as you can. I can’t bear the thought of doing this alone.

The babe has dropped. I know it’s an old wives tale that it means our child will be here soon, but I can’t shake the feeling that your son or daughter will make an appearance soon.

Love,

Your Waddling Druffalo of a Wife

P.S., if you happen to go by Val Royeaux in your way home, please buy a box of those spicy chocolates from the confectionary I’m fond of?

* * *

Dear Little One,

I confess I do not care to be away from your mother so close to her time. The new midwife has estimated you will be with us in a few short weeks, but duty has called me elsewhere for the time being.

Gravid as she is, she would have come with me to fight Ventori holdouts if she were not expressly forbidden from it. I believe she is beginning to regret hiring such a formidable woman as a midwife, but in truth I am relieved. The battlefield is no place to give birth.

Every night I dream of coming home to you. I am impatient to hold your mother in my arms and to feel your small kicks and hiccups under my hand again.

Failing that, I pray I will be home in time to be there for your mother when her time is due.

\--Your father

* * *

Dear Little One,

You were born early in the morning on the Fifth day of Harvestmere. Your mother held my hand so tightly through her contractions I thought she might break it. When you emerged, you cried so loudly you might well have been heard all the way across the Waking Sea.

I counted each finger and toe of yours while the midwife tended to your mother. Ten fingers and ten toes and your mother’s nose.

I write this with one hand, holding you against my chest as your mother takes a well-earned rest. I find it hard to put my emotions to words, to describe how it feels to finally hold you in my arms after months of waiting.

You are such a tiny thing, yet you already occupy such a large piece of my heart it almost seems impossible. I never dreamed I would be a father, but as I hold you I can think of little else I would rather be.

You are loved, and you are welcome. No matter what happens in life, I want you to know that.

\--Your father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://laelior.tumblr.com).


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